


Into the Green & Blues

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftermath of Coma, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attraction, Backstory, Banter, Bittersweet Ending, Blue-Purple Hawke, Coma, F/M, Falling In Love, Feels, Happy Beginning, Happy Ending, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major Illness, Memory Loss, Modern Era, Modern Thedas, Past Relationship(s), Plans For The Future, Recovery, Serious Dearth of Angst, Serious Injuries, True Love, all things considered, fenhawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Waking up to a bright, sunny afternoon, a bit achy and woozy but otherwise fine, is rather a marvelous thing.That’s the first thing he thinks after he opens his eyes. The next is:What an odd, sad, frightening dream that was. I’m very glad it’s over.Prompt and credits/sources in end notes.





	Into the Green & Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Modern Thedas AU. Amnesia fic, implied life-threatening injury to major character and near-death. Post-coma. Allusions to pining and broken relationships. Happy, hopeful ending. Surprisingly not _dripping_ with angst. But a little damp, though.

 

 

 

 

 _Waking up to a bright, sunny afternoon, a bit achy and woozy but otherwise fine, is rather a marvelous thing_.

 

That’s the first thing he thinks after he opens his eyes. The next is: _What an odd, sad, frightening dream that was. I’m very glad it’s over_.

 

Then, after blinking away his fuzzed, soft-focus vision into something a bit more satisfactory about the edges, he takes in his surroundings through semi-squinting eyes. Late afternoon sunshine, shining in through half-open blinds on his left, illuminates the sort of room that he knows means _hospital_. Indeed, the impersonal-sterile-mechanized space seems like quintessential hospital fare: a bare—but private—room, not large, but not small, either. He’s lying partially propped-up in a large, computerized bed that’s rather too firm and steadily beeping. He can make out digital read-outs from the corner of his eye, even without turning his head. The mattress is dressed in scratchy-faded-soft white sheets and topped by more of the same and a blue-gray blanket, as well. All the linens smell strongly of bleach and industrial detergent.

 

There’s a flat-screen television bolted high up on the opposite wall, toward the right corner and a slightly ajar door that leads to a darkened room. It's likely a lavatory, as the widely ajar door next to it leads out into a corridor that’s traveled and peopled . . . but strangely quiet for all that. But for the distant beep of machines and the gentle-low susurrus of passing feet and passing voices, his greater surroundings seem sepulchral . . . almost like a forgotten graveyard.

 

The very air of the room—and beyond, he presumes—smells of concentrated cleansers, detergents, and sterilizing agents. Of medicines and something elusive-sweet-disturbing. Like dying flowers or dying . . . _dying_.

 

 _That_ scent inspires an atavistic sense of near-superstitious dread and revulsion within him. The systemic shudder that follows is so minute, he only registers the sensation on a molecular level. His bony-long, grey-brown arms instantly break out in gooseflesh. And probably his spindly, forever-long legs—which extend toward the foot of the bed in which he lies, and which feel as massive as twin black holes—as well, even though he can’t quite sort out the signals their nerve endings send to his brain, just yet.

 

But the motion _does_ make for a rather unpleasant tug in his arm that certainly _is_ quantifiable. There’s a tall metal pole with a half-empty intravenous drip hanging from it—and a meter-length of coiled, clear-blue plastic tube trailing from the IV bag, over the computerized left “rail” of his hospital bed, and into his pallid-skinny left arm—which bears this out. The IV cannula is affixed to his inner elbow, medical-taped to a fare-thee-well, even as the business-end nestles in one of his veins, providing nutrients and fluids. He twitches the arm a bit, simply to see if he can move it. It feels weighty, almost impossibly so. But with some brow-furrowed effort, he’s not only twitching his left arm, but curling his fingers a little, exhausting though that is. Still, it’s more than he imagines he’d accomplish trying the same with his covered, immobile legs. And as for his _right_ arm—

 

 _Oh_ , is his third thought on this glorious morning, followed by: _The handsome elf holding my hand, whilst squinting down at a book that’s obviously giving him trouble—if the frowning mouth and moving lips are any indication—makes this day even better. A good day—a_ glorious _day, indeed._

 

The odd, sad, and frightening dream is utterly forgotten, as is the primal level-fear caused by that faint death-scent. And for a minute or two, he simply watches the aforementioned handsome elf struggle his way through his book—it’s a thick one, with yellowed pages, and a scuffed/smudged leather binding and covers—while continuing to mouth whole sentences and passages with distracting, ridiculously soft-looking lips. His face is angled down at the book, but even so, his features are angular and striking. Regal.

 

In conjunction with _his own_ rather hairy, big-knuckled hand and blunt-tipped fingers, the elf’s look as if they’ve been designed for lock-picking, or playing piano, or operating on broken brains. Clever things. His fingers seem spidery-long, and taper to callused tips with neatly-trimmed nails. But despite this and his overall compact size, the elf’s hand is larger, wider, and warmer—just enough of all three to be noticeable. Also, _both_ their hands look as if they’ve made a good fist, or two, in their time. There’s certainly some scaring that bears this theory out.

 

His fourth and final thought—though it’s more of a soul-deep feeling and _knowing_ —before silence and spectating are done forever, and the world is irrevocably engaged, is that he had been wrong. The handsome elf isn’t _just handsome_ , he’s _bloody gorgeous_. In the same way as a stark sunrise or an unscaleable peak seen at a remove: as possible and likely as anything, if only because of being seen at such a great distance

 

Yet . . . the bloody gorgeous elf, scowling so fearsomely at his reading material, is both closer, and somehow infinitely _more_ possible and likely.

 

He’s never seen a mountain, unscaleable or otherwise. Nor has he seen a sunrise, stark or gentle. But he _knows_ —battered, heavy, and _exhausted_ as his entire body feels, and subdued even by the light blanket covering him—that neither would compare in majesty or beauty to the man holding his hand. And they’re certainly not nearly as worth seeing.

 

Or . . . climbing.

 

“Ahhhh. A single entendre. Barely,” he murmurs—croaks—sardonically, then yawns. It’s a real jaw-cracker that shuts his eyes even as the bloody gorgeous elf’s head whips up and the thick, ancient book falls off his knees and to the floor, forgotten. When the yawn has finally passed, it leaves him blinking sleepily, and torn between a sheepish smile, complete with waggling brows, and outright laughing at the look of blank shock on the other man’s face. “Erm—oh, dear. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, er—”

 

“Oh!” the elf exclaims in a low, mellow sort of rumble that’s not just tangible as sound, but as palpable, marrow-deep churning that makes bone vibrate and nearly dance. Then the elf blinks rapidly and a lot, his mouth opening and closing several times before he finally looses a punched-out sort of exhale, and sags. “You—I . . . I mean, _you’re not_ — _how are you_ —I . . . beg your pardon. You . . . startled me.”

 

“And here, I’d thought we’d covered that bit, already.” His voice is less of a croak and more of a creak now. Not as deep as the elf’s but no longer as pained sounding as it’d been even a minute ago. Still, his throat feels awfully dry and parched, and his tongue tastes like he’d been using it for heavy dusting. Meanwhile, the elf is still stiff, still . . . _still_ , and apparently frozen that way. His wide, green—no, _tourmaline_ eyes are stricken and incredulous. Those eyes are not quite obscured by shaggy, moon-white hair, long overdue for barbering. And not far below the gaze-drawing hair and eyes, abstract, but ornate tattoos, the same moon-white but with faint iridescence, start below his lower lip and continue down his chin and throat. And presumably further south still, underneath a jet-black turtleneck jumper. “Are you . . . alright?”

 

The elf blinks and swallows and shivers. But his intent, _intense_ tourmaline gaze is steady and amazed . . . and so wary, as well. “I . . . that is, I am fine, Hawke. It is _you_ who have been worrying practically all of Kirkwall. And then some,” he adds ruefully, his brow furrowing again. Then he sighs and shakes his head, a tiny, wobbly chuckle escaping him as the grip of his large, hard hand goes from easy and firm, to tight and almost-panicky. “Never have I been so thankful that you are such an _impossibly_ impossible man.”

 

“Ever at your service. Gladly.” Quirking a small, uncertain smile at the elf, his very next clear thought comes spilling out of his mouth. “And, erm, _Hawke_? Is that, ah . . . my _name_ , then? I can’t seem to recall . . . anything at all about myself.”

 

The bloody gorgeous elf blinks. Opens his mouth again, then shuts it again, looking more incredulous—and confused—than ever.

 

“Ahhh,” he says, then shakes his head as if trying to wake himself up from a strange dream. He bites his bottom lip and blinks some more, before letting out a shaky, uneven breath. “Is . . . this a joke, Hawke? Are you, erm . . . _shitting me_ , right now?”

 

“No. Unfortunately, no. Sorry.” Frowning a little . . .  _Hawke_ . . . suddenly realizes how utterly odd such a question must seem to the elf—presumably a friend or relative—even if it doesn’t seem odd to himself. Rather, the _question_ isn’t odd because . . . _Hawke_ . . . is quite used to _not_ knowing his name. It is, as of his waking several minutes ago, his default-state. Knowing his name certainly seems far odder, somehow. Perhaps because he’s been given a name—almost arbitrarily—out of nowhere, without first being consulted. He feels as if he’s experiencing being newly-born, only with the mental faculties to truly appreciate the frightening, disorienting strangeness of identity-given, as opposed to identity-created and learned. “Is, er . . . _shitting you_ something I . . . am likely to do, when I’m at home?”

 

The bloody _gorgeous_ elf—Bloody Gorgeous Elf—snorts and laughs briefly, his mouth working without sound or coordination for a few seconds. Then he shakes his head again and huffs. “It is. Whether or not you are at home, Hawke. And . . . yes, that is your name. The name your father gave you,” the B.G.E. corrects himself gravely, as if there’s a difference _and_ distinction between those two things. After a moment, Hawke silently concedes that there is. “You are named _Garrett Malcolm Hawke_.”

 

Hawke feels his brows lift in genuine curiosity as the B.G.E. asserts this quietly, but fiercely. Not as if he thinks Hawke is about to reject the name or the claim, but rather as if he wants to convey levels of meaning and importance regarding them. Layers of _history_ that Hawke should already know and remember . . . but clearly does not.

 

 _I suppose, for all intents and purposes I_ am _newly-born, if my name means something to everyone except me,_ he decides, then shrugs and smiles a little at the still-gobsmacked elf, offering the paltry gift of his reassurance and acceptance. “Well, thank you for telling me. That’s not such a bad name, at all, _Garrett Hawke_. And if it’s the name _you_ know me by, I have no need for another. Frankly, I’m simply relieved that my name isn’t _Branson_ or _Rhett_. Granted, I’ve no memory of meeting anyone with those names, but lack of prior experience makes me perfectly objective about the matter. Taken on their own merits, as identifying clusters of syllables go . . . I’m not a fan of either cluster, I fear.”

 

Throughout these meandering musings, the B.G.E.’s eyes have gotten wider and rounder, as has his mouth. He looks both shocked and amused. Wondering and wary. “You . . . are _not_ playing some ill-timed prank on me, then? You truly do not remember . . . _anything_?”

 

“I don’t. You have my word on that. Not that the word of an amnesiac—one possibly suffering from other brain injuries, as well—means much. I can’t recall _anything_ specific to a time before opening my eyes to this hospital room. And to . . . _you. You_ are the sum of my life-experience.” Hawke sighs and shrugs haplessly, wracking his clear, but empty mind for a silver-lining. “Oh! But, I, erm, . . . remember how to drive a car, if that’s at all helpful or relevant?”

 

“I assure you it is _not_ , as you are terrible at it,” the B.G.E. says, and this time, the amusement is grim and mirthless, and accompanied by a bitter smile. He glances down, focusing on their linked hands again. Hawke’s is markedly darker, but still suffering from a rather sickly pallor under his complexion. “I apologize for my fluster and inane responses. I am . . . rather thrown at this moment.”

 

“Understandably,” Hawke replies with as much warmth and patience as he has available. Surprisingly, there’s a lot of both. Especially when the B.G.E. looks up at him again, making and maintaining strangely candid eye-contact. “I’m a bit nonplussed, myself . . . I can’t _imagine_ how this must all feel for you.”

 

Again, that blinking surprise, bordering on shock and disorientation.

 

“ _I_ cannot imagine how all this must feel for me, either. I suspect I am at something of a remove from my . . . deeper feelings and thoughts on the matter. However, my relief, and gratitude that you are alive _and_ awake, is clear and beyond doubt. I have, in fact, never been so overjoyed in my life,” the B.G.E. adds, as soft and plain and sad as a sigh. “But my state is of no moment, Hawke. Not when _you_ . . . ah, I've never been facile at feelings, or the examination and discussing, thereof. But if you are in any distress, I would offer what little comfort may be taken from the blandishments of a . . . total stranger.”

 

Despite the self-deprecation and the tear-shiny, reddened state of those wide, tourmaline eyes, Hawke is still firmly of the opinion that he has never—not even in the darkness-shrouded _Before_ of his Past-Life—and will never see anyone as bloody gorgeous as this Bloody Gorgeous Elf. His physical beauty quite aside, the other man . . . _shines_ , in a way that illuminates Hawke’s entire world, such as it is. Darkness is a lie. A nightmare that Hawke has lately woken from and to which he could never return with such a beacon and lighthouse as _this_ to guide him.

 

He smiles and squeezes the B.G.E.’s hand. It’d been warm when Hawke first woke, but now, it’s chillier than Hawke’s. He rocks-shifts a little toward the elf—it’s a bit laborious, cudgeling motion from his body, as it remains intensely sluggish and slow to respond . . . _heavy_ —and drags his free left arm across his body, covering and clasping the elf’s hand in both of his. But only after nearly a minute of exhausting effort that leaves him trembling all over. “You don’t _feel_ like a stranger. And I find you _extremely_ comforting. Or, at the very least, _not remotely discomfiting_. You’re . . . I’m very lucky and happy that you’re the first person I’ve ever met,” he murmurs, and after another few seconds of shock-blinking, the B.G.E. smiles again. Small and wary, but pleased, too. Endeared and hopeful.

 

“I . . . once told you that meeting you was the most important thing that ever happened to me, Hawke. But I was mistaken. Rather, _I am now mistaken._ And have been since the moment you opened your eyes and smiled at me. _Spoke_ to me after _so long_ of no hope. None at all. _This_ is the most important thing and most important moment of my life.” The tiny, warm smile that briefly curves the B.G.E.’s lovely lips is also as pained a grimace as Hawke never again wants to see on such a striking and beautiful face.

 

Nonetheless, that smile still makes Hawke’s heart beat faster, as if trying to keep up with . . . something. Or someone. He not-so-inexplicably likes this Bloody Gorgeous Elf a great deal, and even just the eye-contact and hand-holding is a gentle, safe, radiant _rightness_ that makes Hawke’s heart trip and his breath catch . . . even as the beat deepens and resonates. Even as his chest seems to expand and bell-out like a sail in a strong, guiding wind.

 

“Somehow,” the B.G.E. murmurs wonderingly, his voice as small as his stricken smile, “even after all that has happened, you manage to make me feel safer and more sheltered than anyone I have ever known. As if anything and everything is alright or soon will be. _Even now_ , Hawke, I cannot explain why or how, nor plumb the depths of it. I only know that for the first time since Carver called to tell me you had . . . for the first time in a long time, _I am able to breathe_. You are alive, and _awake_.” A tiny-stricken chuckle meanders and shakes its way from the B.G.E’s chest and throat, and his eyes are shining even more. The hand linked to Hawke’s is clutching and clasping, squeezing and almost scrambling to keep a contact Hawke isn’t trying to break.

 

While the B.G.E. breathes and _shakes_ and clutches at his hand, Hawke can only stare in slightly awkward concern. But it isn’t long before concern edges out awkwardness, and he squeezes back, taking a deep breath. He holds and keeps the still-tense B.G.E.’s hand gingerly, at first, then tighter. It’s comfort bordering on an approximation of intimacy, though Hawke’s not sure how he recognizes this without prior memory or experience on which to lean.

 

But he lets the B.G.E. hold and keep _his hand, too_ : calloused fingertips are both rough and gentle, calming and thrilling as they memorize Hawke’s own hand and fingers, and the shape and bunch of his knuckles. Until, with one final shuddering exhale, the B.G.E. groans and hangs his head. He shuts his eyes so tight they must ache horribly from such treatment.

 

But he does not let go of Hawke’s hand. Neither does _Hawke_ let go of _his_.

 

“Just when I begin to think you’ve surpassed your own set records for Most Impossible Man,” the B.G.E. says heavily, but chuckling again as he runs his shaking right hand through that moon-mop of hair. The roots are as stark as the ends. “You ask someone to hold your ale, then proceed to surprise us all.”

 

His continuing chuckle is the _saddest_ chuckle that Hawke has ever heard. And not just because it’s the _only_ chuckle—sad or otherwise—that he’s ever heard. It's wearily unhinged in the sort of way Hawke supposes only long hopelessness and deep grief can manage.

 

“Ah . . . hey, there . . . er, friend . . . there’s no need to take on, so. It’ll be alright. Erm. I hope,” he says, as soft and reassuring as he knows how. But for a grown man, or so he assumes given the height of himself—judged as he glances down the bed at long, lean-ish legs and boat-sized, poking-up feet all covered by the blue-gray blanket—he doesn’t know terribly much about the hows or whys of anything.

 

One thing Hawke _does_ know, however, is that the B.G.E.’s chuckles, which now sound more like sobs, are upsetting in a way that he can’t easily label. Is it sadness? Anger? Confusion? Peckishness? Literally anyone’s guess would be better than his, Hawke is certain. But he knows it’s a feeling he doesn’t like. The only thing he likes less is the fact of the B.G.E.’s suffering, and the intensity of it being so great, the other man can’t even hide his failing struggles to repress it.

 

And he’s obviously trying _very_ hard, if the muttered swearing and imprecations at himself are any sign. He even covers his face with his free hand, while trying to free the other from Hawke’s grasp. Hawke’s reassuring grip becomes a clamp, with laced-together and locked fingers, and the B.G.E looks up. His face is dry and wan under his tan complexion, but his brilliant eyes are pink and wet. The dark lashes surrounding them are damp.

 

“They said the longer you slept, the less likely it was you would ever wake up,” the B.G.E. mumbles, thick and through what sounds like a tear-constricted throat. “I did not want to believe that . . . nor even to hear it. You had left no advance directive regarding your wishes should this situation come to pass. Nor should you have, for how could anyone foresee. . . .” the B.G.E. trails off, glancing down at their linked hands again and blinking. Tears roll down his strong-featured face and he shakes his head. “In my despair, I did not know what to do. I knew what _I_ wanted and longed for, but . . . I nevertheless did only what I hoped was right for you. Misguided or not, that choice has led to _this_ moment, and that makes all my mistakes _worth it_ , Hawke. It makes even the likelihood of your anger toward and hatred of me . . . worth it.”

 

After a minute of trying to process that tortuous, but heartfelt confession with no context whatsoever, Hawke gives up. Instead, he does the only thing that feels right and natural in the moment, with those big, grave tourmaline eyes holding his own so bravely and guiltily. So _ready_ to accept whatever censure and blame and rage they expect as their due.

 

“I know I’ve only just met you, but . . . I very much doubt I could _ever_ hate you,” Hawke says, raising their hands and covering them with his other. The B.G.E. blinks, his dark eyebrows raising and lowering as if his face can’t figure out what expression it should wear. Hawke smiles and shrugs. “I’m certain that, as all—friends? Family? Loved ones?—erm, people can and do, we’ve had our share of rows and fallings-out. However . . . well, I can’t really lay claim to being familiar with gut-feelings, all things considered. But the first one I’ll have ever had is the one I’m having now: that you are someone I have never hated and will never hate.”

 

The B.G.E.’s face is so vulnerable and unshielded, it seems to be quivering and on the verge of shattering, like a fragile crystal under some unseen pressure. His eyes are so wide and hopeful, his smile so tiny-timid and grimacing, that Hawke’s heart, all of it, immediately flies out to the other man and he nods, certain only of two things: this one statement he’s just said, and the core-deep knowledge that he need be certain of nothing else, so long as he holds-on to that.

 

“I cannot imagine anyone ever hating you,” he murmurs absently, searching the B.G.E.’s eyes not because he can’t find something he needs to see, but because he sees something he’s been needing to find. Perhaps, he acknowledges, for further back than his truncated memory goes.

 

The B.G.E.’s smile widens and seems less like a grimace. It makes the corners of his eyes and the smiles-lines bracketing his nose and mouth crinkle pleasantly. “You are . . . _were_ . . . have been known for your vivid imagination, Hawke. Among other things.”

 

“I don’t doubt it. Hmm. Well, that tears it, then. I’m definitely going to have to start referring to you as the _B.B.E._ ,” Hawke declares on the back of a shaky, yawning laugh. The B.B.E.’s brows finally settle on lifting as their mode of expression and Hawke is rather dismayed to realize that there _may be no_ angle or facial expression which would mitigate the devastating exquisiteness of this man. That here, is a beauty so obvious, yet so infinitely deep, there’s no comparing it to any other, nor comparing any other to it.

 

The B.B.E. _makes sense,_ and makes this familiar-strange world make sense, simply by existing exactly as he is and in Hawke’s vicinity. As long as Hawke—whose own name tastes far less familiar and native to him, and is of far less moment than the giddy-scared-ecstatic flutters of his heart and stomach whenever the B.B.E.’s eyes meet his—has these two basic foundations of his life, he will always have his bearings and a true direction.

 

It’s a certainty that’s a little frightening to Hawke who, as yet, has no personal experience with anything or anyone, even the B.B.E., on which to fall back. He’s not even sure what to call such a certainty, or the feelings and hopes it stirs within his exasperatingly empty head and his perplexingly overflowing heart.

 

“B.B.E.?” the elf ventures just before Hawke would have spoken—though what he would have said in that moment, Hawke doesn’t know and never will. But this, too, is of little moment when the B.B.E. smiles his small-crooked smile and his eyes seem to glow with affection and wonder. He’s gazing at Hawke as if Hawke is a miracle in which he wants _very_ badly to believe . . . and is just starting to. As if his own world is at last making a sense it’d given up on or had never made in the first place. “I’m . . . afraid I am not especially facile at acronyms.”

 

“Bloody Breathtaking Elf,” Hawke clarifies, and those dark brows really shoot up. Hawke grins, slow and hapless, and the B.B.E. turns quite red under his tan complexion. Some mischievous, little-shit instinct makes Hawke go on in his most casual tone. “I had been referring to you as the _B.G.E._ . . . Bloody Gorgeous Elf. But when you smiled, just now, I realized the _Gorgeous_ superlative really wasn’t superlative enough. Oh, I’m certain _Breathtaking_ will prove not to be, as well. But hopefully when I cross that bridge, a more appropriate descriptor will make itself known. Though my recall clearly isn’t at its best.”

 

The B.B.E. snorts and colors even more deeply—more fetchingly—looking down at their clasped hands, once more. “Memory issues notwithstanding, you still have a penchant for and excel at making me blush.”

 

Hawke’s grin is probably a smirk, now. Technically. “At least I’ve not lost my taste for worthwhile pursuits and . . . _rewarding_ hobbies, then.”

 

The B.B.E. snorts again, and smirks a little, too, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Perhaps. But tell me: can you still play the piano?”

 

Hawke lets his smirk fade into a furrowed brow and turned down mouth. “Wh-what’s a _piiii-ahno_?”

 

The B.B.E.’s mouth drops into a satisfyingly surprised and dismayed gape. Hawke leaves him hanging for about five seconds before laughing. “Prat. Don’t start shenanigans if you’re not prepared for someone else to finish them. _Especially_ when dealing with a memory-less X-Factor such as myself, B.B.E.”

 

After a few moments of narrowed-eyed scowling, the B.B.E. finally shakes his head and briefly chuckles. “You have a point. And . . . it’s _Fenris_ , by the way.” Though a bit rueful and sardonic, his voice is more of an amused rumble than a collection of forced-back sobs, which Hawke finds immensely satisfying.

 

“ _The little wolf_ ,” he muses, with barely a pause for thought, and the B.B.E.’s—Fenris’ eyes widen, his dark brows lifting again.

 

“You . . . remember that?” he asks, his Adam’s apple bobbing once. He licks his lips nervously and Hawke blinks. Shivers. Frowns at the odd, but intriguing flush of heat that sweeps across every inch of his skin, as well as in places further down than the top hem of the light blanket covering him. Which also makes him aware of another unpleasant eventuality of a long, convalescent hospital stay.

 

 _Catheter_ , his mind supplies, with far more discommode than it’d supplied ‘little wolf.’ _And there’s probably a feeding tube of some sort, as well. Someplace on me . . ._ in me _. I can’t wait to find out_ where _, exactly_.

 

“Erm, no. I mean, I don’t _think_ I _remember,_ Fenris. It’s just . . . something I knew in the moment. The same way I know that toffee is delicious, and beets are . . . not.” Hawke frowns and looks down at their hands and tries to find a non-hurtful way to tell Fenris that his name is simply a name: one with meaning . . . but no _significance_.

 

But Hawke can’t find that way, for all his trying. Nonetheless, the sight and feel of their linked hands is grounding and reassuring. So is the fact that rather than simply allowing the touch—or even subtly discouraging it—Fenris holds-on tighter, as if promising to keep on doing so, no matter what. Hawke takes a deep breath and does some promising of his own, lifting their hands just enough to turn them. Fenris’ blanched-bronze hand is a mesmerizing counterpoint to the citrine-sepia of Hawke’s. So mesmerizing, in fact, that Hawke nearly misses the matching flashes of silver on each of their ring fingers.

 

Nearly. But not quite.

 

And even though Hawke knows the significance of matching rings on ring fingers, his empty mind doesn’t quite make the connection. Even as moments pass with him staring and staring at the rings, turning their hands to eye one ring, then the other, then back.

 

“Hawke,” Fenris says, stiff, but soft. Gentle and kind. For Hawke, meeting those bright, tourmaline eyes, is easy and difficult. And wonderful, as ever.

 

“H-How long have we been . . . married, Fenris?” Hawke asks through stunned-numb lips, and Fenris smiles again, crooked, small, and pained.

 

“Nearly four years,” he answers slowly, his gaze dropping to their hands. “Though we’ve been . . . involved for more than eight, on and off. During the . . . on-times, you were always relentless in your insistence that we ‘make it legal.’ Even so, the look of surprise on your face when I finally did propose marriage was . . . gratifying, indeed.” Fenris’ smile almost becomes a smirk again. “Though you refused to accept my proposal until I agreed to take your family name.”

 

Blushing and still surprised—pleased and dismayed again—Hawke chuckles. “ _Fenris Hawke_ is certainly a . . . one-of-a-kind name. For a one-of-a-kind man,” he adds, and when Fenris’ wary-hopeful gaze meets his own, shrugs and smiles.

 

“It is a name I was . . . proud to wear, for as long as that honor was mine. Though I was certain not to give-in to your demands that I do so, without at least a token fight.”

 

Hawke snorts. “ _Token_? Oh, something tells me you made me earn that compromise.” This time, Fenris’ smirk is nothing like his small, hesitant smile. It’s dangerous and sharp and challenging. Challenging of _what_ Hawke doesn’t yet understand, but it’s a challenge he’s utterly certain he would regret not accepting, actual readiness quite aside. Then, his brow furrows as his mind settles on something else he had almost missed. “Erm. I noticed rather a few _was_ es in that last sentence . . . are we, er . . . no longer. . . ?”

 

Now, Fenris’ smirk fades into a grim, expressionless mask, which is telling in and of itself. “We are . . . still legally married.” That clear, direct gaze falters and is shuttered by stubby, dark lashes. Fenris licks his lips again and before Hawke can follow-up on that answer-that’s-really-not, he clears his throat. “I . . . forgive me, Hawke. You are . . . recovering from a head-injury, but you have not been rendered a drooling imbecile. Nor do you deserve to be treated as such, least of all by your . . . by someone who cares for you. I will not couch truths, however unpleasant, in lies of omission.” His eyes tick to Hawke’s once again, grim and sad.

 

Hawke opens his mouth to ask . . . something. But Fenris silences him with a shake of his head. “Never have I been able to deny you, Hawke. Not anything you’ve ever asked of me, provided your life and health weren’t endangered. You wanted me to become a part of your family and I did. I _was_. For as long as you wished that. And when you . . . _stopped_ —”

 

“Garrett!”

 

Hawke startles fully upright, out of his scratchy-soft pillows and the slightly inclined hospital bed, though he immediately flops back into the rasping softness of the bleach-and-detergent scented linens. His muscles are too weak to support his frame in a bid to _remain_ upright, and he’s instantly winded and weary from even that brief effort.

 

Fenris, too, has startled, and pulled his hand free of Hawke’s, half-standing as he turns to face the open doorway, and the man frozen in it. “Carver,” the elf acknowledges with a lack of inflection that says more than any inflection would.

 

The newcomer’s eyes tick to Fenris for several weighty moments, then right back to Hawke, widening even more, round as prize cabbages at a county fair and dark as Hawke’s existence before ten minutes ago.

 

“You’re . . . you’re. . . .” the man says, all but stumbling into Hawke’s room. He’s tall and brawny, clean-cut and close-shaven about the head, dressed in inoffensive, neutrally-shaded business casual-wear, all grays and beiges. His face is square and boyish, with hints of cragginess, his citrine-russet complexion glowing with good health and . . . joy. “Bloody _hell_ , Garrett! They said you’d never wake up, but . . . you just had to go and be your usual, contrary arsehole-self!”

 

Hawke blinks, glances at Fenris, who’s facing the television bolted high up on wall, parallel to Hawke’s bed, and looking at neither of the other two people in the room. The hand Hawke can see is balled into a fist that’s tightening and loosening alternately.

 

Turning his gaze back to the big man now moving toward his bed, Hawke’s brow furrows, but he tries on a smile that feels limp and less than genuine. “I, er . . . suppose I did. Er . . . _Carver_ , is it?” he asks, but the other man doesn’t seem to hear, his eyes skating over Hawke as if taking-in some beloved dream become fantastically real. He stops at the bed, with slightly too much distance put between himself and Fenris for it to be accidental, gazing at Hawke with fierce and _shining_ happiness.

 

And Fenris . . . Hawke’s Bloody Breathtaking Elf . . . still isn’t looking at either of them.

 

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” Carver says again, his eyes tearing up as he leans closer to Hawke. Uncertain, Hawke shrinks back a little, darting another questioning glance at Fenris, who turns toward him once more, but doesn’t look at him. Hawke’s hand feels cold and he scrabbles his fingers across the blanket toward Fenris’, where it clutches the right computerized bed-rail. But Hawke stops himself, closing his own hand into a loose fist as he looks back at Carver. The big man sits on the edge of the bed gingerly, facing Hawke, then leans in and reaches for his unclenched left hand. Hawke has no instinct either way about letting this newcomer take it and feels neither relief nor revulsion at the touch. Feels nothing at all, but for noticing that his hand is cold in comparison to the stranger’s. “Merrill said you were still in there, still . . . ah, fuck, how’d she put it? _Still expressing Hawkeness to this plane of existence, and not yet done for a long time to come_. Heh. _You_ know Merr. And I just passed it off as Dalish-claptrap, and her trying to keep everyone’s spirits up. But she was _right_. Sonuvanug, she was right!”

 

Carver laughs heartily, clutching Hawke’s chilly hand in both of his warm ones. Then he scoots closer to the head of the bed and pulls Hawke’s hand to his chest, resting it over his beating heart. That beat is strong and slow. Steady.

 

“When we lost Dad and Bethany, it nearly destroyed me, Garrett. Then when Mother was killed, I . . . well.” Carver swallows and shakes his head, looking down at their clasped hands as his big, beaming smile fades. “I spent so long being so _angry_ at you for all the things neither of could have changed at the time, let alone after it. So long _blaming you_ for doing the best you knew how at the time. I was immature and spiteful . . . disloyal to the only blood-kin I had left. But the past seven months have put so much into perspective. _Everyone_ makes mistakes, even the people we look up to. Even big brothers. Even the legendary _Champion of Kirkwall_. But no matter the mistakes, I’ve _never_ doubted that your intentions were always the best. _Never_.” He lets go of Hawke’s hand briefly, to wipe at his eyes, then takes it again, smiling and laughing a little. “And the thought that you might _die_ without knowing that . . . without me _telling you_ . . . that nearly killed me.”

 

Wide-eyed and gaping, Hawke again turns to Fenris, both for relief from the earnestness and intensity of Carver’s gaze, and for a social cue to tell him what to say and do and _feel_. But Fenris is scowling at Hawke’s hand—held, as it is—in Carver’s.

 

“Fenris,” Hawke murmurs, barely louder than a sigh, but willing the other man to look at him. When Fenris does, that tourmaline-shine is brighter than ever . . . and achingly brittle.

 

Hawke doesn’t know what to do or what to say—doesn’t remember what might have comforted Fenris even half a year ago, or if it’s likely to comfort him, now. He has no practical experience with anything or anyone, only marrow-deep instinct based on a recall to which he no longer has access, and the simple desire to be a comfort to a bloody _breathtaking_ elf he doesn’t know.

 

Only . . . Hawke does know. Somehow, on some level, he knows. And when he lifts his heavy hand and arm, he extends it toward Fenris slowly, never minding the shaking and tremoring, or the sore-rubbery ache of muscles on the cusp of atrophying. Weakness, weariness, and aches don’t matter . . . not in the face of Fenris’ pain and Fenris’ need.

 

For Hawke is certain that he would—perhaps already had and once again might—suffer far more than enervation and ache to spare Fenris the same. At the moment, he hasn’t the courage of this conviction, nor the wit such a declaration of intentions deserves, but he can feel it radiating from his entire being, and from the very core of him, like heat. Like life. Like _love_. And he hopes that Fenris can see and feel and be warmed by that simple, honest light. Be reassured by it. Because Hawke suspects that he’s never meant any feeling more purely, or more intensely . . . not even in his shrouded Past-Life. And he’s fairly certain that henceforth, he never will, either.

 

And Fenris, more than anyone else in the world, deserves to know that, and deserves to know it immediately and always. Before anyone else knows _anything else_ about Garrett Malcolm Hawke, _Fenris Hawke_ needs must know this.

 

Fenris’ soft, stuttered inhalation, and wet and widening eyes suggest that the other man knows _something_ . . . but it does not suggest how he might feel about what he might know.

 

But the soft, stuttered _exhalation_ , and implied crinkling bracketing his luminous eyes suggest. . . .

 

Carver clears his throat—startling Hawke again and Fenris, as well—then shrinks back a little when they both turn stern, irritated gazes upon him.

 

“Garrett?” he asks, his low-ish tenor cracking a bit. It sounds familiar in a strange way, and with this realization comes another: this Carver’s voice isn’t so terribly different from Hawke’s own. Not just in accent and pitch, but tone and timbre, too.

 

“Garrett Hawke,” Fenris says formally, reaching for Hawke’s free hand, the one not being throttled by Carver’s urgent-tight ones. But instead of the same sort of clasp, just as before, he lets his fingertips linger lightly on Hawke’s fingers, knuckles, then fingers again, stroking back and forth soothingly. Possessively.

 

It’s not the hand-holding Hawke had woken up to, but it helps. It helps a lot. And when he meets Fenris’ questioning, concerned eyes, Hawke squares his shoulders and nods once. Fenris smiles in reply: small, but proud, rather than pained.

 

“Garrett Hawke,” he begins again, holding Hawke’s gaze intently, as if not only begging Hawke’s attention with the intent to make introductions, but also marking him and naming him. Claiming him. “Allow me to present to you . . . Carver Hawke . . . your brother.”

 

For what feels like eternity, there’s simply silence. Processing, stunned, and unreadable, respectively. But when Hawke finishes his processing, he glances from Carver Hawke’s blank, confused expression to Fenris’ stoic one, and smiles. “Thank you, Fenris. Er . . . it’s nice to meet you, Carver. Again, and for the first time, I suppose.”

 

Now, _Carver’s_ gaze ticks between his brother and his brother-in-law, flushing and blanching as his mouth works. Choked-off, chuffing little half-syllables huff out and finally, Carver shakes his head, blinks at Hawke with wary disbelief, then turns reluctantly to Fenris, his mouth the barest suggestion of a distasteful moue. Fenris crosses his arms over his chest.

 

“Your brother has awoken, as you can see, but he seems to be suffering some form of amnesia. He does not remember himself, either of us, nor anyone else, for that matter.” One sardonic, exquisitely measured beat. “But he _does_ remember how to drive a car . . . if that is at all helpful or relevant.”

 

There’s another eternal silence, this one wry, stunned, and grimly amused, respectively. Then, Carver Hawke shakes his head again, as if in negation of everything remotely worth negating, such is the intensity of the shaking. Only for him to suddenly stop and gape at Hawke. Then Fenris. Then Hawke again.

 

“ _What_?” Carver demands of Hawke, half-exasperated and half-afraid, but under an obvious veneer of blustery anger. When his gaze ticks to Fenris yet again, that blustery anger grows markedly thicker. “Fenris, what—what the bloody _hell’ve_ you done to my brother, _now_?”

 

Fenris’ stoic affect doesn’t so much as twitch, but Hawke can tell that Carver’s question and tone have struck a blow, even if he doesn’t yet know why. And that makes him rather displeased with this brother-apparent. More than displeased enough to free his left hand from that warm-desperate grasp.

 

“Fenris didn’t _do anything_ to me. I _have amnesia_. You twat,” he adds flatly, with quiet, but clear threat, even though he’s fairly certain he’s in no shape to fight his way out of a wet paper bag, let alone follow through on such an aggressive promise. But Carver sits back a little more, obviously stunned once again.

 

“It would appear, that there are _some things_ your brother has _not_ forgotten, Carver. How fortuitous,” Fenris drawls, and this time, there’s a _hint_ of inflection, indeed. Hawke smirks and shrugs in the face of Carver’s utter chagrin.

 

“And more than a few mainstays and wonders with which I very much look forward to . . . reacquainting myself,” he says firmly, letting his gaze drift to then settle on Fenris pointedly. Hawke’s Bloody Breathtaking Elf aims a surprised glance from Carver’s face—rather pale under that citrine-russet complexion and angry-flush, eyes wider and rounder than ever—to him, all flickering, vulnerable eyes and minutely trembling mouth. For a moment, all Hawke can do is swallow and nod. “I want it _all,_ Fenris. To have and to hold. To _keep_.”

 

Fenris’ releases his arms from their defensive crossing and reaches for Hawke’s right hand again. Nonetheless, he gasps when Hawke laboriously links their fingers together once more, tight and definite. But then, Fenris squeezes back just as tight after a moment. And though his mouth is still a solemn line, the warmth in his eyes as he maintains their gaze is both right- and familiar-feeling.

 

 _My heart knows and remembers you, Fenris Hawke_ , he knows suddenly, and knowing, is content. _Even if my mind doesn’t, my heart, my hands, and every worthwhile atom of me knows you and remembers you_.

 

“Never have I been able to deny you, Hawke. Time and circumstance have not changed that,” Fenris repeats gravely, but earnestly. “ _Whatever_ you ask of me, I will do my best to provide it, as always.”

 

“The temptation to go someplace dreadfully inappropriate with that is high, but . . . for now—” Hawke chuckles and yawns, settling deeper into his pillows and nodding over at the night table near Fenris’ forgotten chair. There’s a sweating pitcher and a cup on it, and Hawke’s dry throat suddenly _aches_. “For now, I’d be happy with a tall glass of water and your continued company. Er, _both_ of your company,” he amends, graciously including a pallid, stricken, and left out-looking Carver in his glance. Then he gestures vaguely at his own left temple. “Though I nominate _you_ , Brother Carver, to be the one to inform a nurse or doctor that I’m awake and, ah, missing some bits, as it were. Since Fenris will, of course, be far too busy pouring me water and being ridiculously breathtaking while doing so.”

 

Carver’s mouth drops open again, and he looks from Hawke’s face, to Fenris’ face, then down to their tightly-linked hands. Then back to Fenris. But Hawke doesn’t really notice or care.

 

Because Fenris is still smiling at him— _grinning_ , now. Squeezing Hawke’s hand like a life-preserver and _beaming_ , really. And Hawke . . . is still smiling _back_. Grinning-squeezing-beaming— _glowing_ —right back.

 

And so, it goes until Carver returns from the nurses’ station a minute later, with no less than _three_ flustered, incredulous, jabbering medical professionals on his heels. The . . . _professionals_ bottle-neck at the door to Hawke’s room in a flurry of bruised competence, poise, and expertise. Which turns to outright shock when a chipper and wide-awake Hawke—not to mention a rakishly smug and self-satisfied Fenris—smirk and wave at them all.

 

“Well, I’ll be,” the medical professional in the lead—a tallish blond with an unkempt ponytail, a rumpled lab coat, and a ponderous demeanor—mutters, half-chuckling and half-exasperated. But his absent smile and amber-colored eyes are warm and relieved. “You bloody _impossible_ arsehole.”

 

“That’s what _I_ said,” Carver huffs petulantly, his thick arms crossed and his boyish, dark face set in a put-out glower. “ _And_ he has fucking _amnesia_! Fucking _arsehole_!”

 

And despite still being _dreadfully_ parched, and trembling with lethargy and exhaustion, Hawke laughs and laughs. Waited-for, welcomed, and wanted— _warmed_ by awed and joyous gazes a-plenty . . . though the tourmaline-shine one matters more than all the others combined—Hawke is _reborn_. He is . . . reforged.

 

He has been successfully rebooted and is now _tabula rasa_. All his old mistakes are _done_. This, here and now, is the first day of the rest of his life. Any mistakes he makes from now, on, will at least be exciting and interesting ones. _New_ ones.

 

Holding that optimism, and his nascent hopes and dreams— _and_ Fenris’ hand—close, Garrett Malcolm Hawke walks into the world again. And for the very first time.

 

#

 

**_*[I'm not together, and you know it's true.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)_ **

[ **_My bits all wander in the trees._ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_And if I ever seem a little strange,_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_Would you excuse me, please?_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_I said I’m human, but you know I lied._ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_I'm only visiting this shore._ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_I'll soon be leaving in the outbound tide._ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_I pray again we will meet._ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_I’m wasting your time, just talking to you._ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_Maybe best you go on home._ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_I'll leave you alone, fade from your mind,_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

[ **_Slip into the greens and blues._ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ)

 

END

**Author's Note:**

>  **Credits/Sources and Prompt:**  
> 
> “[Green & Blues](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1vdYTzPtKQ),” lyrics written by Black Francis, performed by Pixies.
> 
> LGBT Writing Contest Prompt #2: After a terrible accident, your character's partner has amnesia and doesn't remember that they're engaged. The wedding's in two months.
> 
> (I was listening to a Pixies’ song—as I so often am—when I stumbled across the above prompt. The two combined and cemented in my mind to form not only a story, but a tone and theme and _feeling_. This Hawke and Fenris were also influenced heavily by [About Her](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VaOgsRESdmM), by Malcolm McLaren (Bessie Smith ft. The Zombies), from the Kill Bill Soundtrack and once I was in the Zone, the [Frida Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_qEgw9_UBzBsnt9IRuO7MtVzzq-IjhgN). And that's my _process_ , folks!)
> 
> Thanks to mah peeps at the Writer’s Block, especially: Midds, for giving me an opening line that not only _isn’t_ made entirely of suck, but is actually made entirely of _awesome_ ; Whiskey, for all the sensory descriptions and suggestions to really GROUND this piece; Grumblin, for all the medical knowledge and THIRSTEH cheerleading (LIEK WOAH); Hotot for keeping the characterization and writing style on-point and on-track; Littleleotas for insight and feedback on characters and style; and stitch for luring me onto the Fenhawke Hell-ship, in the first place and still being the yardstick against which I measure my Fenhawke. Seriously, thank you _ALL_ for the inspiration, motivating feedback, and concrit!
> 
> ::huffs and wheezes::  
> ::grabs inhaler::
> 
> If anyone wants to see more of this 'verse, let me know. As always, I have headcanons for DAYS.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
